Chapter Text
Carved.
That was how Dream had described it to Hob.
Could have chosen any number of ways to describe the process, and he’d landed on ‘carved.’ As in, at this very moment, Dream was having the part of himself that was solely and uniquely Morpheus carved out of the being known as Dream of the Endless. All in order to retire from that mantle and exist permanently in the Waking World as an immortal like Hob.
No, not quite like Hob. Nothing about this felt like anything that Hob could relate to.
Carved. Somewhere out there, Morpheus was being carved away from the only existence that he had ever known, and Hob was just…pacing in his flat, waiting for the aftermath.
Could have gone with ‘removed’ or ‘detached’ or…fucking Hell even ‘stripped away’ would have been better than…than fucking carved.
Nobody had ever retired from being an Endless before. Hob might understand why, if the process was involved carving.
The quiet air of the flat offered no consolation as he paced, and the helplessness and uselessness of his part in this event was suffocating.
He had wanted to be there with Dream as it happened. Had offered, asked, begged, pleaded to be there for his oldest, dearest friend while he was going through probably the single most traumatic thing that Dream had ever voluntarily initiated. But Dream—that stubborn, prideful creature—had refused…asking instead that Hob only be present after it was done.
Carved.
It was going on six hours since Dream had left his flat, looking a green shade of pale and stinking of rancid anxiety and resignation. He hadn’t looked healthy enough to withstand a strong breeze, let alone whatever violence was involved in this…carving.
Hob might have thought he looked like death, but in recent months, Hob had met Death of the Endless, and she was lovely.
His thoughts drifted to the colorful, funny little ‘happy retirement’ card that he’d bought at the shop a few weeks ago in a moment of what he could only call gallows humor. He recalled that he had promptly shoved the glittery, obnoxious thing into the nearest kitchen drawer when he’d gotten home and regained his senses.
One day that card might be a funny, appropriate thing to give to his friend. As he paced, Hob ached for that day to already be here.
Carved.
Should he be preparing for what ‘after’ meant? As in aftercare? What the fuck did a man, freshly carved out of the nebulous function of Endless, need afterward? A blanket? First aid? Soup? In the long run, he had already started preparing himself for what Dream might need from him now as an immortal. Support. Patience. Safety. Stability. Comfort. Friendship. Every black item of clothing that Hob owned.
But what would he need in the immediate hours after this? Hob felt unprepared, but that was a mode of living that he had existed in for centuries. If he was good at nothing else, he was good at adapting. So…whatever Dream needed…Hob would provide.
But FUCK it would have been nice if Dream had given him any kind of clue of what to expect here…maybe he himself didn’t know.
Fucking…carved.
Hob was just making his hundredth lap around the living room, reaching the kitchen before he would turn around and start again, when the air in the flat changed. He instinctually recognized the warmth carried on a soft gust from the beat of Death’s wings, and Hob was spinning on his heel to face where it came from.
There stood Death of the Endless in the middle of his living room, and in her arms was Dream.
Not Dream. Morpheus.
He was draped in his sister’s arms, wrapped in the black fabric of his own clothes and his face tucked against her neck. He’d always been slim as long as Hob had known him, but he had never looked small before. He looked small now. He’d never looked fragile before. He looked fragile now. As if he’d simply turn to dust if Death jostled him too much. At the same time, he’d never looked so…solid. Tangible. Human.
“Hob.” Death’s voice was soft, the barest edge of a waver in it.
Hob’s eyes painfully lifted from Morpheus’s limp form to Death’s face. Her expression was awash with emotion. Something bittersweet and sad and joyful and full of relief that made for a confusing kaleidoscope across her face. She was nearly shaking with it.
It broke the spell that had paralyzed Hob in his tracks, and he rushed forward across the space that separated him from them. He held out his hands desperately to take Morpheus from her.
“Is he all right—” he started.
“Please,” she said, just as softly. “I don’t have much time left with him like this…It’s almost done.”
Hob left his hands where they were, hovering but not reaching farther. “What do you mean?” He looked at her, at Morpheus, and then came back to himself, stepping aside. “Here.”
He hastily swatted the loose papers and snack wrappers off the couch, sweeping them to the floor. He grabbed up the throw pillows there, clearing a space for her to set down her cargo. It wasn’t long enough to lay Morpheus down though. Hob straightened up.
“Actually…I have a guest room—” Hob turned in a frantic little helpless circle, then hurriedly led her a few steps away to the closed door that led to the second bedroom of the flat.
The room was sparse, just a simply made bed, a cheap bedside table, and an even cheaper writing desk with a blue rolling chair tucked under it.
“It’s not much, but…” he trailed off, running a hand through his hair.
Death quietly but swiftly moved past him into the room, gently depositing her brother onto the bed on top of the covers. Morpheus went down like a ragdoll, and the barest breath of discomfort came out of him at the jostling. Death carefully straightened him out, resting his head on the pillow. It took all of Hob’s willpower not to get involved, just to put hands on his friend, just to have some kind of physical contact with him.
“Is he all right?” he asked quietly. He immediately deadpanned at the stupidity of that question, and then plowed forward. “I mean, not—What does he need? He looks…” he trailed off again.
Death got Morpheus settled and then reluctantly removed her hands from him. Her gaze stayed locked onto his form. He didn’t move from where she’d placed him, seeming to sink into the blanket and mattress beneath him, utterly boneless and limp.
“He’s exhausted,” she murmured.
Then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she reached out and tenderly brushed the back of her hand across his forehead, through the messy dark hair there.
“He’s got a heartbeat now,” she mused aloud. “Breathing and everything…Almost human soon.”
Hob blinked, taking a tentative step closer. “So it…worked? He’s free?”
Death grimaced through a smile at Hob, and he lifted his hands.
“Sorry, no offense, but…is he?”
Death chuckled at him and looked at Morpheus again. “Almost. The process is nearly done. It got to the point where he had to be in the Waking World, and he couldn’t get here on his own.”
“Thank you for bringing him here,” Hob thanked her. “I don’t know what good I am, but whatever I’ve got, he’s welcome to it if it helps.”
Death looked at him with a warm fondness on her face, and then she sighed.
“My function is finely tuned toward helping the living to accept my gift and leave this plane for the realm of the Sunless Lands,” she said. “I don’t have nearly as much experience in…acquainting the newly born with life. But I can think of no one else better suited to help my brother navigate this new existence than you.”
No pressure then.
Hob swallowed, cobbled together a shaky smile for her, and then looked down at Morpheus. His friend was resting peacefully, or at least it looked that way to Hob. The green of his earlier pallor had warmed to something more human, with a touch of pink under his skin. His expression was relaxed, still carrying that permanent little pout on his mouth. He lay still and quiet, and Hob could see his chest rising and falling steadily. He did look exhausted, but at least he seemed to finally be resting.
“How long will he be like this?” he asked in a small voice.
“I don’t know,” Death admitted. “None of us have ever gone through this process before. Could be hours. Could be a few days. You might have to wake him up if he keeps at it longer than that,” she tutted, folding her arms.
Hob frowned and looked at her. “You’re not staying?”
Death smiled painfully, eyes moving up and down her brother’s form. “No. I have to get back to my duties and…we already said our goodbyes.”
“Goodbyes.”
“Endless to Endless,” she explained. “The next time he opens his eyes, he’ll be human, but I’ll still be me. I imagine it’ll take him a while to be okay with seeing me again after this…Not being on equal footing anymore. He won’t be Dream anymore, but he’ll still be my brother…and an idiot.” She shrugged, though it obviously bothered her more than she was willing to verbalize. “That’s okay. I’m patient, and he’ll come around at some point.”
Hob could see the distress in her even as she played it cool, and he awkwardly put a hand on the blue rolling chair by the desk.
“Um, well, he doesn’t look like he’s going to wake up anytime soon…if you wanted to sit with him for a while yet. I’ll put a kettle on?” he offered.
Death looked almost relieved at that, at the offering of more time, and she bobbed her head, taking him up on it as he tugged the rolling chair over.
“That sounds lovely. Thank you.”
Hob didn’t need telling twice. As reluctant as he was to leave the room for any length of time, he was more desperate to be of help. So the kettle went on, and while it was heating, he ducked into his bedroom closet and rummaged out a spare fluffy blanket as well as an electric blanket, along with all the pillows that he could find.
The soon-to-be-former King of Dreams was sleeping in his spare room; what kind of host would Hob be if he couldn’t provide the most comfortable accommodations?
Death seemed amused by his frantic energy, and she gratefully took the cup of tea he offered her, after adding a frankly alarming amount of honey to it. Honestly, it was more honey than tea by the time she was sipping at it.
Hob managed a semi-graceful exit after that, leaving Death to sit in quiet vigil with her brother, planted in the desk chair, warming her hands on the mug of tea and propping her crossed ankles on the side of the bed.
He stepped out into the living room, softly closed the door, and then he leaned against the wall.
Okay, Morpheus was here, Hob thought, taking a semi-relieved breath. The carving was over, and he’d survived all that that had entailed. Death had brought him here to recover. He was alive and safe and in one piece.
Now it was just up to Hob to keep him that way.